


the battle's done (and we kind of won)

by The_Eclectic_Bookworm



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Eclectic_Bookworm/pseuds/The_Eclectic_Bookworm
Summary: She didn’t quite look like the woman he remembered, but he didn’t exactly feel like the man she had loved, so it seemed about right.(a post-chosen fix-it fic of sorts)





	the battle's done (and we kind of won)

The night after they destroyed the Hellmouth, Giles dreamed of Jenny. They were sitting in his old apartment, on his bed, surrounded by roses of every color, and she was tucking a red rose into his lapel. “There was this thing you said,” she was saying, conversationally, “about—oh, I don’t know, about how scent is the most powerful trigger to the memory, right? And it got me thinking—I want you to think about this kind of thing when you’re around roses. Beginnings, not endings.”

“I never liked roses all that much anyway,” Giles said, looking down at Jenny’s hands. The thorns had scratched her fingertips, and she was bleeding very slightly. “They seemed overly romantic. I like—carnations, I think, and daisies. Not roses.”

“You say that now,” said Jenny, “but I’m sure if I gave you a respectable bouquet, you’d be over the moon.” She finished tucking the rose in, then patted his shoulder. “How are the children doing?”

“Fairly well, I think,” Giles answered. “Or as well as they can be doing, considering.”

Jenny nodded. Then she said, “You really dropped the ball on them, these last two years.”

“I know,” said Giles.

“You don’t,” said Jenny, and kissed his forehead. The scent of roses was overpowering, now, bringing back an old, cloying terror in Giles, but the presence of Jenny so close overpowered all that. “You’re stagnating, Rupert. You’re becoming everything that always used to frustrate me about you.”

“But you’re still here,” said Giles.

“Maybe I’m a little stuck too,” said Jenny, smiling a little wryly.

Giles felt himself smile, very briefly, a more genuine smile than he’d managed in years. “I haven’t strayed too far from the path?” he asked.

“No, you have,” said Jenny. “But you still want to do right by those kids. I think that’s what counts.”

This was when Giles woke up, lying in the bed of a largely unfamiliar motel room. The scent of roses lingered, and he could remember—every word she had said to him, every one of her movements and mannerisms. It was the closest he had been to her in years.

_Beginnings, not endings._

Giles pulled himself up from the bed. Jenny’s presence lingered, just like the roses, like she had simply left the room and was waiting a few steps away from him.

* * *

 

Most pervasive, those first few days, was the sense that Giles should be doing something and wasn’t. He couldn’t think of a time in his life during which he hadn’t been working out some problem or another—balancing his destiny with his desires with his responsibilities to his Slayer—and now, all of a sudden, his services as Watcher weren’t quite so integral to the fate of the world. That or they were more integral than ever before. Really, it depended on how you looked at it.

Buffy was focused, mainly, on attempting to figure out what to do with the many Potentials they’d accumulated, and how to rebuild the Council. She spent most of her time planning and sketching out timelines and organization strategies in the front seat of the bus, Willow and Xander at either side and Dawn leaning over the back of the bus seat, all of them talking over each other in tones that were almost aggressively cheerful. Faith and Robin were joining in, on occasion, adding their two cents about structuring education and finding a place to stay and things like that.

Giles wanted to join in, but kept on hearing Jenny’s words— _you’re stagnating, Rupert—_ and couldn’t piece together what she wanted him to do. He had always helped Buffy, always, to the best of his abilities, even when he hadn’t known Buffy was the Slayer he would be devoting his work and his cause to. He didn’t know what else to make of himself, if not that, and the days in which he had entertained the possibility of being anything beyond a Watcher were long since past. All he could do was give what he could and hope it was enough.

* * *

 

Jenny Calendar was sitting by the swimming pool in the motel when Giles rounded the corner and found her. She looked pale, almost ghostly, and she was reading a copy of _Scientific American,_ her hair tied back to keep it out of her face as she read. He stopped, wary—it had been just about five years, after all, and the pain of losing her had long since dulled into a prevalent, steady ache that was easy enough to think through—and he was quiet enough that she didn’t look up from her reading.

Giles waited. If this was some sort of mystical portent, some signal, he knew enough to know that she would look up and see him. She couldn’t be here for anyone but him, after all, if only because—he cut himself off before his thoughts devolved into something more lonely and longing, and leaned against the wall, waiting.

Jenny continued to read. Giles continued to wait.

“Hey, Giles,” Buffy called, rounding the corner, “do you have any money in your wallet? Pizza guys don’t accept credit cards—”

Giles turned abruptly, looking first at Buffy and then back again at Jenny. But Jenny was gone, no trace of her remaining. He was left not with a sense of loss, but with a sense of mild confusion.

* * *

 

He was so out of touch with his feelings, these days. Hadn’t felt anything painful in a very long time, if only because he had buried all his pain and resentment along with Jenny. Had to keep doing it, when Buffy died; that kind of pain was all-consuming, and letting himself feel it would have destroyed him.

And then Buffy had come back, and things—with him—had been dulled around the edges and worn through. It had made much more sense for him to leave than to stay and muddle through what would inevitably be a failure. He was weak, and he would do anything Buffy asked of him as long as it meant she would stay alive. She had needed someone who knew how to draw lines.

Giles thought he had become that person, now, but it seemed Buffy didn’t need that person anymore.

Jenny was in the motel lobby when he entered again, and this time it made him start and jump a bit because he hadn’t expected her to come back. He was suddenly terrified that she’d turn, that she’d see him, that he’d be responsible for whatever knowledge she wanted to impart upon him, but she just took a sip from her glass. The copy of _Scientific American_ was gone; she was wearing a long floral-print dress with spaghetti straps, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She didn’t quite look like the woman he remembered, but he didn’t exactly feel like the man she had loved, so it seemed about right.

A Watcher would investigate, but Giles hadn’t been a Watcher in years—and anyway, he was already haunted by enough ghosts as it was. Made sense that a few of them would be made physical. He would do what he always did: walk past them and ignore them, because remembering one would mean remembering them all.

It was Jenny—but it had been years, and whatever she had to tell him she would when he needed to hear it. Giles was too old and too tired to be put through the wringer by a long-dead friend he had loved in happier times.

As he walked past her, she looked up, quiet and slow. Her face was devoid of its usual joyful affection, or even that tired, heartbroken look she’d worn in the last days of her life (he’d forgotten about that, and the sudden memory of the misery he’d inflicted upon her sent an unexpected jolt of pain through him): she just looked at him, studying him as though trying to find something in him that wasn’t there.

Giles could feel some measure of his self-control crumbling. He turned, continuing out of the motel.

Faith was standing outside, leaning against one of the pillars and looking at the school bus with a vaguely disinterested expression. Her face didn’t change as he stepped up next to her. “You a little lost?” she said, almost mocking. “I’d think you’d wanna be hanging with the rest of the Scoobies.”

It was taking everything in Giles not to think about how, over and over, he had walked away from Jenny Calendar—first in life, then in death. It was taking everything in Giles not to think about the first person he hadn’t felt afraid to love—and _had_ loved, clumsily but oh so ardently. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and then some, tilting his head up to look at the sky. “Clouds forming,” he said dimly. “Might be rain on the horizon.”

* * *

 

It did rain. The children crowded into Buffy’s motel room and watched movies on television. Buffy invited Giles, the invitation tempered and halfway an old formality; she didn’t trust him all the way anymore, he knew. He had broken that trust too many times, these last few years, and turning to her regarding Jenny would cause her more pain than she needed right now, so he quietly turned down her invitation and tried not to think too much of the half-relieved expression in her eyes.

Too many things shattered between them. Too many moments wasted. She had invited him to the Ice Capades senior year, in place of her father, and sometimes he wished that he had skipped the Cruciamentum in favor of time well spent with the girl he loved so dearly (but only ever in half-thought fragments, because a Watcher wasn’t to love his Slayer— _couldn’t_ love his Slayer as a father loved a daughter, as Giles loved Buffy and would never admit to).

He left the motel, instead. Walked down the street in the pouring rain and entered a nearby convenience store to buy himself a beer and buy the children some snacks. It was cold, and wet, and he was tired to the bone as he selected a beer and a handful of candy bars.

“Cash or credit?”

Giles looked up. Jenny was behind the till. “Don’t,” he said. “Please.”

“Cash or credit?” said Jenny again, and smiled at him. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, she was wearing the convenience store’s vest-and-visor uniform, and she looked ghostly white.

Giles shoved the beer and the candy bars in her direction, then stormed out of the shop and half-collapsed two steps away. He felt so hopelessly adrift, so disconnected from logic, as he stumbled to lean against a wall and then slid down until he was sitting on the wet sidewalk.

He heard the sound of footsteps, and then felt someone sit next to him and nestle their head on his shoulder. Turning to look, Giles saw Jenny, still in her convenience store getup, her ponytail soaking wet. She didn’t say a word, just settled into his arms in that puzzle-piece perfect way she’d always been able to do.

“I love you,” said Giles, involuntarily and very softly, and found himself stunned and frightened by the words. He’d never said them, after all.

Jenny exhaled. She was solid in his arms, if a bit cold and wet, though that felt more of a pouring-rain thing than a dead-thing because he could feel her breathing. “You can’t keep things buried forever, Rupert,” she said. “Please don’t, if only for my sake.”

Giles didn’t know how to follow up to that. A flash of lightning illuminated Jenny’s face, and he half-expected to see something old and ancient and magical there, but—it was just Jenny, with her dark eyes and her tied-back hair, looking at him in that half-assessing, half-adoring way that had always made him feel so frighteningly loved. “I love you,” he said again, because it felt like just as much of an admission as he was comfortable with, and he didn’t know how to be honest with her. Or anyone, really.

“Yeah, I know,” said Jenny, which he supposed was what had made it so easy to tell her—he’d always known she knew. Her hand touched his face, and he noticed with some surprise that she was very slightly warmer than him. What did that say, that a long-dead love fresh from the grave was warmer than he was? Perhaps Giles was dead, after all, cold and buried and forgotten somewhere just like Jenny.

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask that question,” said Jenny. “You kept me buried all these years, Rupert, you know that?” There was no accusation in her words, just a quiet, patient, tired tone he recognized from the very last days of her life. “You never let yourself think of me for longer than a second, because you told yourself there was never a good enough time for it.”

“That wasn’t the reason,” said Giles. “I didn’t think of you because—it would hurt, and I would be lost in that hurt. There were people who needed me and I didn’t have time—”

“—to grieve?” Jenny finished.

“Yes.”

“But you were grieving anyway.”

“Yes.”

They sat there for a few more seconds, Jenny’s hand stroking Giles’s cheek somewhat absently. Then she said, “I’ll be here to stay, soon, you know.”

Strangely enough, this news didn’t startle Giles as much as it should have. “That makes sense,” he said, bothered by the fact that it did. “For how long?”

“For as long as I want to be, once I’m here all the way,” Jenny replied almost warily. “But right now—Rupert, there are too many things you’ve buried in your lifetime. Not just me. I won’t be all the way here until you’re able to accept the fact that there are things you’ve done wrong, things you can fix, and things you won’t be able to fix.”

“Jenny, there are too many things I can’t fix,” said Giles quietly. “It’d destroy me, dwelling on them.”

“It would,” said Jenny. “It wouldn’t destroy you to accept them.”

Lightning flashed again, and she was gone. Giles leaned back against the wall, thinking of how brief and dizzyingly wonderful being so close to her had been—five years, and she still made him feel the best version of himself—and then he pulled himself up and walked back to the motel.

* * *

 

His clothes were soaked. Giles undressed, showered, laid his clothing out to dry around his motel room, and changed back into it because he didn’t really have anything else to wear. It was still raining outside, and it was raining as he walked across the hall and knocked on Buffy’s door.

Dawn opened it. “What happened to you?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious. “You look—”

“Got caught in the rain,” said Giles. “Also, um, I think Jenny’s coming back from the dead.”

Buffy blinked. Xander frowned. Willow, eyes wide, said, “Jenny _Calendar?”_

“The very same,” said Giles. “Buffy, may I speak to you in the hall for a moment?”

“Oh, um, okay,” said Buffy, looking nonplussed and strangely guilty. Then, “Giles, are you sure—what makes you think this isn’t—”

“A trap?” Giles finished. He almost said _I would know,_ but it then occurred to him that perhaps he might not. Instead, he said, “I feel I’m entitled to entertain a little blind faith once in a while.”

Buffy’s face seemed to relax a little at this. Clambering off the bed, she informed the group, “Don’t you _dare_ start that movie up again till I’m back,” then followed Giles out of the room. “What’s up?” she asked, shutting the door behind her.

Giles thought of Jenny, and how, if he had been braver, more honest with himself, he could have had _years_ with her. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” he said, “and that I love you.”

Buffy’s easy smile flickered. “Kinda vague there, Giles,” she said. “You sure you don’t wanna get a little more specific?”

Giles didn’t. Not really. It had been hard enough admitting that he loved Buffy, ridiculous though it seemed. But he bit his lip, then said, “I left last year—”

“You’re sorry about _that?”_

“I’m sorry about a lot of things,” said Giles, furious with himself for being so utterly unable to say the right thing. “I’m sorry that—that I don’t know how to communicate to you how much I care, that I’m constantly worried it’ll impair my judgment and it’ll end up hurting you, that somehow my apprehension and my holding back _has_ hurt you and I don’t know what we’re supposed to do about it—”

“ _Where do we go from here,”_ Buffy warbled. She was smiling a little as she reached out, placing a hand on Giles’s shoulder. “C’mon, Giles,” she said, and there was a lighter note to her voice that he hadn’t heard since—since before she died, really. “We’re watching this really dumb movie and we need someone to make snarky British comments.”

A small, pervasive feeling of long-felt hurt stopped hurting _quite_ so much. Giles let himself be tugged back into the motel room.

* * *

 

Buffy was asleep on his shoulder by the end of the movie, and the rest of the children had followed suit—all but Willow, who climbed onto the bed and sat down next to Giles. “I never stopped missing her,” she said in this small, sad voice. “Not once. It just—hurt, and hurt, and hurt, and I’d visit her grave by myself the day before she died, every year. You promise she’s coming back?” She gave him a wobbly little smile, then said, “I wanna come out to her.”

Giles didn’t know what to say to all this. He imagined Willow grieving, silently, and on her own, and so much smaller than he—and he’d shut Jenny out. Kept her from coming back. The guilt couldn’t weigh him down, though, because god knows what else it would shut out while it kept him miserable. “Come here,” he said, and let Willow settle into his side. “She’ll be here.”

It was when Willow was all the way asleep that the door opened and Jenny stepped in. She was wearing the clothes she had died in, this time, her hair falling around her shoulders, but her face was still ghostly white. “And you’ll take care of us?” she asked.

“Always,” said Giles.

“And you’ll let us take care of you?”

The question tripped Giles up. “I—”

Jenny crossed the room, stepping carefully over the sleeping Potentials on the floor, and leaned down, kissing Giles’s forehead. “You’re almost there,” she said, and then he was alone in the room. No, not alone—he was merely the only one awake.

* * *

 

They left the motel the next day for a Los Angeles mall, prepared to buy clothing and things that Buffy called “essentials” but were really self-indulgent treats for everyone to make up for the fact that so many of them had died. Giles, who didn’t exactly feel like indulging, was tempted to settle himself outside the mall and wait for everyone else to be done, but he remembered what Jenny had said about hiding things and keeping things buried and he decided now, if ever, was a time to let himself be a part of something.

It was strange, but Jenny’s return had made Giles begin to realize how natural it had become for him to quietly isolate himself from the children, and how easily they all fell into conversation without once paying attention to him. He didn’t resent them for it; he had, after all, set a precedent and a pattern, and they had become used to it. But now, with less secrets hidden and feelings shut away, he felt—lighter, and less inclined to avoid attention. Shy, still, but it was different than isolation and detachment.

“You look weird, man,” Xander observed with a small smile when they’d all sat down for lunch.

“Oh?” Giles looked up from the burger and fries Buffy had cajoled him into ordering.

“Yeah,” said Xander. “I don’t think I’ve seen you look relaxed since—” He stopped, then said carefully, “Since Ms. Calendar got killed.”

And even though he _knew_ she was coming back, even though he’d seen her and touched her and stood close enough to kiss her, Giles felt that same ache of loss begin again. “Yes,” he said finally. “Well. I-I suppose—seeing her again—has helped.”

“You think it’s really her?” Xander didn’t sound skeptical, just curious. “I guess you would know—”

“Yes,” said Giles simply. He grinned a little, then added, “She’s being indirect and hesitant—very, very clearly Jenny.”

Xander smiled too, looking almost sad. Then, in a strange, careful voice, he asked, “Did you—why was it her that came back? I mean, not—not that I’m not happy for you, man, but—she’s been dead five years, why—”

Giles thought he understood, just a bit. He remembered the sudden, violent, irrational anger he had felt upon finding out that Angel was alive and Jenny remained in the ground. “Why not Anya,” he finished patiently. “Or Tara. Or Joyce.”

“Or  _Anya,_ ” said Xander, and gave Giles a crooked, pained smile. “I mean—you get it, man.”

“I do,” said Giles. “I-I’m afraid I can’t give you a real answer to that.”

Xander nodded, then sniffled, then nodded again. “Yeah,” he said. Then, “How—do you deal with something like that? Knowing you just—fucked things up with her, over and over and over, and she deserved _so_ much better than someone like you?”

It wasn’t a question directed at Giles—rather, it was a reference to Xander and Anya, which made it a less painful one to answer. “I suppose I wouldn’t be the one to ask,” said Giles, smiling a little wryly. “My methods were to keep things in and never talk about her again.”

“I don’t think I want to do that,” said Xander, scrubbing awkwardly at his eyes. “I want—I don’t want to forget her. She was—I loved her, Giles. A lot. I just didn’t know how—”

“Then remember her,” said Giles. “It’ll hurt like—it’ll hurt, but it’ll be worth it to, to remember the good bits.” He felt his smile soften. “Do you know,” he said, “the most precious bits of my time with Jenny, the days I want to remember if only because they were normal and boring and nothing happened—I’ve forgotten them. What it was like to be with her when days were still and peaceful—all I remember is the expression on her face all those times I hurt her. Don’t—” He stopped, trying to remember Jenny’s words. “Don’t dwell on your mistakes,” he said. “Accept them. Understand that there’s nothing you can do to change them, and—and perhaps they might hurt a bit less.”

“Think that’ll work?” Xander sounded hopeful in a way that was much younger than his years.

“Truthfully, I’ve no idea,” said Giles. “But—if I can help you, I will. And if you ever want to talk about Anya, I’d, I’d like that. She was an interesting and incredible woman, and she taught me a lot in the short time I knew her.”

“Yeah,” said Xander, and moved his chair a little closer to Giles. Giles hesitated, feeling awkward and nervous, then clapped Xander gently on the shoulder, and—that felt right, he thought. Just about.

* * *

 

No one was quite sure where they were going. Xander, Andrew and the Potentials had started up a persistent and rallying cry for Disneyland, Buffy was pushing to check in on Angel, Willow seemed to be of the mind that they should get started on rebuilding the Council as soon as possible, and Faith—seemed to be giving Giles odd, searching expressions whenever she could. Seeing as Faith had mostly been ignoring Giles whenever she could, Giles decided to check in on her, and reluctantly clambered out of his uncomfortable school-bus seat over to sit down in the same aisle as Faith.

“Giles?” said Faith after a few seconds.

“Yes?”

“When did she die?”

The question took Giles by surprise. It only took him a moment to answer. “Around eight months before you showed up,” he said.

Faith sucked in a breath. Then she said, “I never knew.”

“I didn’t talk about it,” said Giles mildly.

“I always—I hated how you just—never paid attention—”

“Faith,” said Giles, feeling a twinge of guilt as he thought about exactly what Jenny would say to him right now, “Jenny’s death doesn’t justify the fact that I let you stay by yourself in an awful part of town and didn’t think much of it.”

“It doesn’t,” said Faith. “And I’m not planning on forgiving you for it anytime soon, or anything, but—it explains it, a little.”

“Does that help?”

Faith shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“Good,” said Giles, and relaxed back into his seat.

“Giles?” There was a small, wicked smile on Faith’s face.

“Yes?”

“What kinda lady is this sweetheart of yours?”

“Whip-smart, beautiful, and utterly terrifying,” said Giles, and couldn’t keep the love out of his voice.

* * *

 

They ended up stopping in an upscale Los Angeles hotel, partially because that was where they happened to be after driving all day and partially because Giles liked the idea of giving the children a high-end vacation. They deserved it, after the years and years of endless supernatural warfare, and it made him feel incredibly happy to see Buffy and Willow so over the moon about tiny hotel soaps. He made sure everyone was settled, dropped his clothing off in his room, and walked down to the hotel dining room.

Jenny was waiting for him, and—she looked older. More solid. Her hair, much longer, fell to the small of her back, and she was wearing a dark blue evening gown that perfectly complimented his suit. “Come here often?” she quipped.

Giles sat down in front of her. “Not as much as I’d like,” he answered, sliding his hand across to take hers over the table. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” said Jenny, smiling. “Proud of you—but then, what else is new?”

Giles moved her hand towards him, kissing the knuckles, and a vivid memory came to him: they had gone out for an expensive LA dinner, once, Jenny in a gown and him in an old tux. He’d draped his jacket over her shoulders when he’d noticed her clutching her wrap and shivering, and they’d gotten ice cream together and walked in the park, talking about things that were refreshingly, beautifully normal—coworkers and books and music and love. “Every time I see you,” he said, “you’re less and less a ghost. It’s as if you never left.”

“I don’t know if I ever did,” said Jenny, smiling a little ruefully. “Rupert—I have something—to tell you.”

“Oh?”

“You weren’t the only one stagnating,” said Jenny, and drew her hand away from his, nervously tucking her hair behind her ears. “I—the Powers—they asked me if I wanted to come back with Angel. They said they didn’t think you were ready for me, but they did think that I might help you get there, and—they said I deserved a second chance, so they would give it to me if I wanted one.”

Giles thought he understood. “And you didn’t,” he finished.

Jenny looked up, surprised. “I thought—you’d be more upset than you are,” she said finally, eyes wide.

“I wasted so much time being upset with you while you were alive,” said Giles softly, tugging Jenny’s hands away from her face, holding them above the table. She smiled, stunned and shy. “I like to think I am the sort of man who is able to learn from his errors and—do better.”

“You don’t want to know why I said no?”

“Not if you don’t want to tell me,” said Giles. “I trust you.”

Jenny blinked, then laughed, a wobbly, breathless sound. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, did I—earn that by dying?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” said Giles steadily. “I trust you because I love you and I know you love me, and, and the people I love aren’t people who would hurt others willingly. You were always— _are_ always—so breathtakingly kind.”

Jenny stared at him. Then, in one fluid motion, she leaned across the table, took Giles’s face in her hands, and kissed him, soft at first but then very hard. Giles, eager, stood up, kissing her back, and _god_ but this table was the _worst_ of obstructions, keeping them both apart—

Giles tripped over the tablecloth, breaking the kiss. Jenny, looking a little dazed, half-fell back into her seat, fingers fluttering to her mouth, and all of a sudden it felt criminal to not be kissing her—fingers, mouth, he _had_ to be near her. Stumbling at first, Giles rounded the table and swept her into his arms, kissing her deeply.

Jenny pulled back, then buried her face in his shoulder with a dizzy, happy laugh. “Rupert,” she whispered. “Rupert, I missed you so _much,_ isn’t that crazy? That I could be dead and still miss you enough for it to hurt?” Raising her head, she smiled at him a little nervously, touching a spot at the corner of his mouth. “I was—scared,” she said. “Of hurting you. I thought I’d rather stay dead than end up hurting you again, if, if you weren’t ready to see me—”

“Not your best call,” said Giles.

“No, it really wasn’t,” said Jenny ruefully.

“Honestly, it was a _really_ bad idea,” Giles added.

“Do you really have to hammer that point home?”

“If it guarantees you coming back to me, then _yes,_ I most certainly _do,_ ” said Giles pointedly, then realized, for the first time, that Jenny wasn’t anywhere near ghostly pale. “Jenny,” he began.

“Yeah?” said Jenny, and grinned, linking her fingers at the nape of his neck.


End file.
